Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (108 page)

 
          
“Pajaro
One-Seven-One, this is Lion Two-One,” Hardcastle said over the flight common
frequency. “Can you hear me?”

 
          
The
searchlight had gone out, but some of the lead helicopter’s lights were still
on. The pilot was apparently still in at least partial control of the chopper,
trying to get out of range of the murderous guns on the truck and to autorotate
his machine for landing. Through the PNVS visor Hardcastle could see smoke
billow from the sides of the chopper, which was still being raked by gunfire.
“Pajaro One- Seven-One, acknowledge! Do you need assistance?”

 
          
“Lion
. . . Lion Two-One . . . this is Pajaro flight . . . Mayday, Mayday, we are
under attack . . . Mayday . . .”

 
          
“That’s
it,” Hardcastle said. He threw full power into his Sea Lion and race forward
across the
Rio
Grande
toward the scene of the attack. “Shark, this is Lion Two-One. I have received a
Mayday call and I can observe an aircraft in distress. I am moving to
investigate. Notify Mexican defense authorities that Pajaro One-Seven-One
flight of two helicopters are under attack and that I am moving to render
assistance.”

 
          
“Lion
Two-One, roger, understand and acknowledge receipt of Mayday broadcast.”

 
          
The
rules changed on receipt of a Mayday. But at this point Hardcastle probably
couldn’t have held off any longer. “Get the lights on, set radar to
terrain-avoidance and put fifty feet on the radar altimeter-warning bug,
Rachel,” Hardcastle said. As Sanchez hurried to set up the cockpit Hardcastle pressed
the interphone button and told Don Rice, commander of his I-Team: “Stand by on
the cargo ramp. We’ve got a Mexican helicopter under attack by heavy-weapons
fire from the ground. Deploying weapons pods.” He activated the TADS targeting
system, which automatically swung both the
six-missiie
Sea
Stinger and the Chain Gun pods into
slipstream and activated them. Hardcastle selected the Sea Stinger aiming
system and centered the aiming donut on the nearest truck.

 
          
The
lead Mexican helicopter had meanwhile autorotated to a hard landing about fifty
yards from the two trucks. “The Pajaro bird’s down,” Sanchez called out. “It’s
lying on its side, but I don’t see any fire. Some soldiers are climbing out
...”

 
          
Men
on the first truck were still firing on the fallen helicopter with what looked
like an M60 machine gun, poking through a rip in the canvas side of the truck
and held in position by large brownish white packages—they were bracing the
machine gun with bags of
cocaine.
“They’re
still hosing the chopper.” Hardcastle deactivated his night- vision visor,
retaining the TADS targeting system for the Sea Stingers, and turned on the
NightSun searchlight. “Come on, scumbags— you want someone to shoot at, take a
poke at me.”

 
          
The
searchlight had the effect Hardcastle wanted. Through his visor Hardcastle
watched as men on the truck pointed at the searchlight beam. The M60 gun
disappeared, only to reappear at the back of the truck, this time on a short
metal pedestal. The men in the truck did not appear to have any night-vision
equipment, so Hardcastle deactivated the searchlight. Seconds later Hardcastle
could see the M60 open fire in his direction.

 
          
“Crew,
we are under attack,” Hardcastle said. He clicked the radio on to the GUARD
channel: “United States Border Security Force, cease fire. Shark, Two-One is
under attack and is returning fire.” He then armed the Sea Stinger pod, waited
two seconds until he got a lock-on tone from a missile, flipped open the
trigger guard, and fired one missile. Actually, he was not authorized to return
fire unless fired on, and even then he was required to notify his command
authority and issue a warning before attempting to defend his aircraft. Well,
you couldn’t always cross all the damn Ts . . .

 
          
At
first the Sea Stinger had nothing to aim at but the residual warmth of the
truck’s rear, but with the M60 pumping out two hundred rounds per minute, the
missile found more than enough heat energy to lock onto. The missile’s motor
was still running when the Sea Stinger plowed into the back end of the truck
and exploded. As the truck erupted into flames, the fire mixed with the five
hundred pounds of cocaine to form a black, burning caramel-like sludge that
coated the gunmen in the truck with napalm-like liquid fire. Burning bodies dropped
and crawled through the brush and sand until the fire found the truck’s gas
tank and exploded, quickly ending the screams.

 
          
Hardcastle
now locked the targeting system onto the second truck. The second Mexican Air
Force helicopter had landed about two hundred yards away and the soldiers had
leapt out and were beginning to move in toward the last truck in the cover of
darkness. When the first truck exploded, the second was not about to wait
around—it dropped into low gear and sped south, a gunman in the back firing
random bursts at anything that moved.

 
          
The
Sea Stinger missile system indicated a solid lock-on after Hardcastle centered
the donut on the fleeing truck. The missile went into the engine compartment
near the left front wheel, ripping the front axle off the truck in the
explosion of its warhead. The engine compartment began to burn fiercely, but
several men jumped to safety and ran in every direction. Hardcastle pivoted the
AV-22 around and deactivated the weapon system, stowing both weapons pods back
into the cargo bay. Using the night-vision system, he maneuvered back to the
stricken Mexican helicopter and set down about forty yards away.

 
          
“I-Team,
the Mexican chopper is on the starboard side about fifteen yards away,”
Hardcastle announced. “Don, check out the occupants and ask the commander to
come aboard.” With sidearms drawn, Don Rice and another member of the I-team
went through the starboard entry door after Hardcastle signaled that it was
safe to exit. Two other I-team members unslung M-16 rifles and covered them.

 
          
The
Mexican Air Force soldiers were banged up, one badly injured, but all were able
to travel. With one I-Team member ushering the soldiers away from the starboard
engine nacelle’s powerful exhaust, Rice escorted the Mexican soldiers carrying
an injured man into the Sea Lion chopper. The soldiers set the man on a seat
just to the right of the entry hatch. When Hardcastle came back to speak with
them he noted that the injured man wore a flight suit and silver stars on his
shoulders. “Are you the pilot?” Hardcastle asked.

 
          
The
man nodded. Rice brought a first-aid kit as the Mexican said, “I am Colonel
Geraldo Hidalgo of the Mexican Air Force. You ... you are the commander of this
aircraft?”

 
          
“Ian
Hardcastle
,
United States
Border Security Force.”

 
          
“Hardcastle?
Admiral Hardcastle. Commander of the Hammerheads?”

 
          
“Yes
and no. I’m just another pilot tonight. Are you hurt badly?”

 
          
“I
can’t move my left leg or wrist, but I don’t think they’re broken. What about
my other helicopter? What about the smugglers?”

 
          
“Your
men appear safe, their helicopter landed okay. We got both trucks. Your men are
rounding up the smugglers from the second truck. They won’t have to bother with
the ones from the first.”

 
          
“So
I noticed,”
Hidalgo
said, managing a weak smile. “Impressive firepower. I have always
wanted to fly one of your Sea Lions ...” He looked at his wrist, limp on his
thigh, “Now when I find myself aboard I cannot fly it.”

 
          
“No,
but you can take command of her,” Hardcastle said. “The plane that dropped
these drugs is making multiple drops all along the Texas-Mexico border. We’ve
been tracking him for hours but couldn’t pursue him into Mexican airspace
without authorization . . . But with
you
aboard in charge of the operation, we can do it . . .”

 
          
Hidalgo
’s face brightened. “You mean we go after
those
perros sucios
in this Sea Lion
. . . and I am in command?
St,
Admiral Hardcastle. If all you require is my permission, I give it to you. Let
me check on my wingman first, then we will see about these
desen- mascarars. ”

 
          
It
did not take long for
Hidalgo
to check on the rest of his men; four of the six smugglers were already
being led toward the Sea Lion by Mexican troops, and those captured smugglers
were carrying the bodies of two more smugglers. The commander of the second
Mexican helicopter gave
Hidalgo
a report that was obviously favorable . . .
Hidalgo
clasped him firmly on the shoulder and
ordered himself taken back to the AV-22.

 
          
Hidalgo
found a headset and set it on his head. “We
have a job to do, Admiral Hardcastle. Let’s begin.”

 
          
Near the Town of
Felix
U. Gomez
, 75 Miles Northwest of
San
Antonio
de
Bravo
,
Mexico

           
Salazar’s largest cargo plane, the
Antonov-26 that he was escorting near the U.S.-Mexico border near El Paso,
still had fifteen hundred kilos of cocaine on board when they heard
Hardcastle’s first warning on the emergency GUARD channel. The formation
maintained radio silence, but Salazar had no trouble guessing what the crew of
the Antonov was thinking—get as far away from the
United States
as possible. That was confirmed when the
last transmission they heard on the Hammerheads’ common frequency said that one
of the AV- 22’s was responding to an emergency situation across the border.
Gachez’s people on the ground were heavily armed and may have been able to tear
up the Mexican patrol that was in the area, but it would be a different story
against an armed AV-22.

 
          
If
they had only a few hundred kilos of cocaine left, he might have ordered the
Antonov crew to abort the last few drops and get away from the border, from
whatever long-range surveillance system was feeding the Hammerheads with such
accurate intercept data. But they had fifteen hundred kilos on board—over three
thousand pounds—and it was worth over twenty-two million dollars extra if they
delivered it as planned. It didn’t matter if the Mexican
federales
snatched it all up five minutes after the delivery—his
part of the contract ended when the drugs were delivered to the spot designated
by the ground crew.

 
          
The
fact that the Hammerheads had closed in so fast made it obvious that Van Nuys
had been taken by the Border Security Force and had spilled his guts right
after his capture. Equally obvious, Carmen
del
Sol Airlines was history, and although he
had several other front-companies established in other countries, including a
few in the
U.S.
itself, he was a man without a country or a base. He had his life, a
few secret bank accounts, a few loyal soldiers to throw into battle, and for
now he had a beautiful F-5E jet fighter with plenty of firepower aching to be
released. It just might be enough.

 
          
But
to survive this thing he needed every dime he could scratch from Gachez and the
rest of the Medellin Cartel before everything completely went to hell. Which
once again meant making this last delivery and earning that last twenty-two
million
no matter what.
One plus in
all this was, for security reasons, the ground crews at each drop-point knew
nothing about what was happening at another site and could not communicate with
each other—so it was still possible for him to make this delivery and get his
money, even though the whole thing was unraveling before his eyes.